Trumpets call, and sing

Through the months of speculation, anxious season of election fast we held to hope of what November Two would bring. Listened to the pundits talking, pollsters stalking, Cheney hawking as a jester, dug in, balking, dancing for his king.

'Tis the end, we said of Bush, let every bell now ring. Trumpets call, and sing.

It mattered not that Mr. Kerry, somber, grave, so rarely merry, stood and shook his plans at us, a sound dry as bones. Eagerly we listened, clapping, banners flapping, as he, strapping, before us laid his jones.

'Tis the end, we said of Bush, let every bell now ring. Trumpets call, and sing.

Our hate was happy, sharp and stealthy, for that face so rudely healthy for that soul as puckered as a river crocodile's. What mattered was the man had lied, from truth he'd shied and people died while yet he swagg'ring smiled.

'Tis the end, we said of Bush, let every bell now ring. Trumpets call, and sing.

Kerry meanwhile showed his shrapnel, told us all that he'd be cap'tal as commander, chief and bossman of a nation mighty. And even with his record smeared, his brav'ry teared by Rovespierre He stood by wrong and righty.

'Tis the end, we said of Bush, let every bell now ring. Trumpets call, and sing.

With thumping hearts we 'proached November, each of us a solemn member of a nation torn asender, gasping in the dark of flux. Would our democracy (hypocrisy? theocracy?) survive should George redux?

'Tis the end, we said of Bush, let every bell now ring. Trumpets call, and sing.

But now it's over with, and done, the poll booths closed, the races run. Kerry's lost and Bush has won. And sure enough we'll sound the bell. Black bell of hell and grim pellmell will sound for everyone.